


Sons of Grace

by erebones



Series: Sons of War [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pirates, Sailing, Smut, Trauma Recovery, pirates of the caribbean: thedas edition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:40:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5078164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felix and Carver journey to Vigil's Keep, and fall in love along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is what happens when I watch PotC while writing Sons of War. Warnings for this chapter include flagrant misuse of nautical terms and graphically killing slavers. The mini-soundtrack to this is 'Flight of the Silverbird' and 'Cannon in D Minor' from Two Steps from Hell's album Battlecry.

The docks at Asariel are bustling, rich with color and sound.  Merchants hawk their wares at the top of their lungs, the smell of raw fish and dock sludge vying for attention with fresh-baked pastries and the sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit. Ships creak and nudge each other in their berths and sailors shout bawdy taunts across their decks; overhead, cranks and pulleys swing cargo from ship to shore, and urchins dart underfoot, quick-fingered and sharp-eyed in their pursuit of loose coin.

Felix keeps a tight hand to his belt and sticks close to Carver and Zevran, a little overwhelmed after so long in the wilderness. The sounds are like drums against his ears, the smells crowding in his nose and demanding to all be smelled at once. He pulls a little on the Fade, letting it mute some of the harshness of the world, and longs briefly for the return of that morning, a quiet, still-watered ride down the last calm stretch of the Lasse River. The barge was overladen with travelers and merchant wares, but in the predawn light it had been quiet and peaceful, Carver a warm weight at his side and the first fingers of sunlight just beginning to touch the horizon. Felix sighs to remember it. 

Zevran lets out a crow of delight, and Felix is jolted rudely from his mental wanderings. The elf pushes his way through the crowd to a small pool of clear space where a man and woman stand, seemingly undisturbed by the chaos around them. The man is tall and lanky, but lurks behind his companion like a watchful shadow, robed in soft gray with white enamel accents. The bow strapped to his back is no surprise. Against his unassuming pallor, the woman is a bonfire: dark-skinned and studded with gold ornaments, dressed in a flimsy white tunic that fits her snugly, and sporting an impressive tricorner hat and an equally impressive set of jeweled daggers. She hails Zevran with a wide, white grin, her cocoa-smooth Rivaini voice rising clear above the hubbub.

“Arainai! Fancy seeing your gorgeous mug again after all this time. When I got your letter I almost didn’t believe it was really you.”

They greet each other Rivaini-style with a kiss on the lips. It’s a very friendly greeting. Felix clears his throat and averts his eyes. “Uh… do we have to do that, too?”

Carver grins. “Only if you want to.” His thumbs are hooked in his belt-loops but he frees them to wrap his arms around the piratess and lift her off the ground in a terrific bear-hug. She peals with laughter and smacks a kiss on his chin before he puts her down. “Hullo, Izzy. Long time no see.”

“Same to you, Shoulders. You’re even more handsome than the last time I saw you.” She pinches his cheek and he ducks away from her, mumbling. “And who’s this delicious boy you’ve brought along with you?” She turns her sea-glass gaze on Felix, and he tries not to wilt beneath it.

“Felix Alexius of Tevinter, my lady.” He bows elaborately over her hand, and that, at least, earns him a full-lipped smirk and a quick up-and-down flick of her eyes.

“Oh Maker’s balls, Felix, don’t encourage her. He’s a Warden, Isabela, and a mage, so don’t get any ideas. You can’t pressgang this one, not on my watch.”

“Pity. Well, at least he’s nice to look at.” She winks at Felix, and he lets himself relax. “Carver, I don’t think you’ve met my first mate—in all senses of the word—Sebastian? He won’t be joining us on this voyage, sadly, but he wanted to see us off before he goes.”

“ _The_ Sebastian?” Carver eyes the archer with interest, and willingly steps forward to clasp arms. “I’ve heard a great deal, serrah, but I’ve never had the pleasure.”

“The pleasure is mine,” the man replies in a lilting Starkhaven brogue. “It’s an honor to meet the brother of the Champion of Kirkwall.” Felix snorts before he can stop himself, and Sebastian’s eyes snap to him. “Something amuses you?”

“I wonder if the day will ever come when people will greet Carver as _Carver_ , and not as his sister’s brother, which, coincidentally, is perhaps the least interesting fact about him.”

Carver is staring at him, and it’s as hard as ever to read his face, but Felix thinks he might be… pleased? “I’m used to it,” is all he says, but he loosens his grip and steps back to stand flush with Felix. The weight of the warrior at his side settles in Felix’s bones, like the world has tipped back into alignment, and he almost misses the knowing smirk that graces Isabela’s shrewd face.

“Well then, now that introductions have been made—and no one has killed anyone else—shall we board? The tide turns soon, and I’d like to get onto open waters as soon as possible. Sebby, darling, don’t get into trouble without me.”

He kisses her hand lightly, something like a smirk hiding behind his stoic expression. “Safe seas and fair winds to you, my captain. I shall meet you in Kirkwall before long.” He spares a nod for the rest of them before melting into the crowd.

“I am still at a loss to understand why you took up with _him_ , of all people,” Zevran drawls as he offers his arm to Isabela.

“I know you are, love. Let's just say that people can sometimes surprise you.” She rests her fingertips upon it, elegant as a lady, and they follow her down the pier to the frigate docked at the end.

It’s a pretty little thing, Felix thinks, Antivan-made with crisp white sails and a hearty strip of azure outlining her portholes. The deck is lively with a motley crew preparing for the voyage, and two of them heave a gangplank across the gap. As Felix follows Carver up the plank, he glimpses the figurehead: a mermaid carved in gilt-edged wood curls her tail coyly at the front, her fins sprawling back along the sides of the ship like wings and her generous bosom hefted skyward in alluring invitation. Then he’s on board, and Isabela sweeps her free arm in a wide arc, beaming with pride.

“Gentlemen, welcome aboard the _Silverbird_.”

* * *

It’s a motley crew indeed, Felix decides. Among them are at least three ex-raiders, a weather mage, a Tal-Vashoth, a couple of Fereldan lads still branded as deserters from the long-ago chaos of Ostagar, and several elves who he’s sure are escaped slaves who owe Isabela their freedom. She blithely introduces them to the crew, and the mage—a Starkhaven boy with dark skin and an eager expression—shows them to the cabin he’s to share with Carver.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” the mage says, looking from one to the other of them hopefully. Felix glances around, pleased with what he finds.  The cabin is narrow, wedged against the bulwark like an addendum to the captain’s suite, but it boasts two portholes and two narrow bunks set into the wall, furnished with bedding and freshly turned out. Felix leans surreptitiously against the one to the right of the short, squat door, and nearly groans at the stiff give of the mattress. _A real_ _bed_ , he thinks, shaking off the memory of long nights spent with only a thin bit of wool and waxed canvas between him and the unforgiving earth. _Maker_ _have_ _mercy_.

“It’s Alain, right?” Carver says, dumping his pack on the leftmost bunk. “I remember you, I think. Were you ever in the Circle at Kirkwall?”

Alain’s friendly smile grows thin. “That’s right. You were there, weren’t you, when the Champion caught up with Decimus and the rest.”

“Yeah. Bloody awful business, that. But you look like you’re doing well for yourself.”

The boy shrugs. “Well enough. I was part of the resistance, at the end, and when it was over Isabela offered me a place on her ship. Better than scrounging a refugee’s bread and butter from the wilderness, or rotting in some rogue Templar dungeon.” He sketches a brief bow. “If you will excuse me, sers, I have duties on deck.”

“Bit jumpy, that one,” Felix remarks when the door is safely shut. He lets himself sink into the bunk, ducking to avoid clocking his head on the low ceiling.

“With good reason. He doesn’t know me—I may be the Champion’s brother, but a mage raised in the Circle trusts no one without good cause.” He glances at Felix with a brief grimace. “Southern mages, anyway.”

“So I see.” Felix toys with the buckles of his chainmail. “Will we cast off soon, do you think?”

“In another half-hour or so, if Isabela has the harbormaster in her pocket like I think she does.” He’s already divesting himself of his heavy plate, setting everything neatly on the coverlet of his bed to be cleaned and properly stored later. “I’m going up on deck to watch—and maybe help, if I’m lucky. You can catch a nap if you’d like, but I really recommend coming up for cast-off. There’s nothing quite like putting out to sea on a ship like this.”

“What do you mean?” Felix asks, thinking of the merchant galleons he’s taken passage on before: cushy, wide-bellied things that move like beasts through the water. This frigate is nothing like them.

“The _Silverbird_ ’s the fastest ship in the ocean,” Carver says, and there’s a twinkle of an echo in his voice, like he’s mimicking someone else. “And a lovely sight to see when she gets underway.” He pats Felix’s shoulder brusquely as he passes. “Get some rest first though, yeah?”

When he’s gone, Felix peels out of his armor and replaces it with a fresh shirt and a light woolen tunic over his leather trousers. He eyes the chainmail lying in a pile on the floor and shuns it instead for the tabard, fitting loosely without his gambeson and mail. He feels slightly underdressed after months of regulation Grey Warden gear, and even the change of clothes isn’t enough to erase the tackiness of a week’s rough travel lying on his skin, but it will do. He leaves the cabin and hikes up to the deck.

The sun is a little past its zenith when the _Silverbird_ makes it out of the harbor bound for the Amaranthine Ocean, prow cutting east almost immediately. The sails work well enough, Felix supposes, flapping occasionally when the capricious breeze slackens, but he’s no seaman, and he’s hard pressed to see what’s so spectacular about their sluggish exit into open water.

Then there’s a shout from the stern where Isabela stands bow-legged, hands gripping the heavy ship’s wheel with disturbing familiarity, and Alain is beside her, head bowed over his hands and fingers moving swiftly as he mutters to himself. Hedge magic, Felix thinks, somewhat skeptically—but then he feels the prickle of mana gathering under his feet, surging through the deck like a live wire, and out of nowhere the sails belly and snap and the _Silverbird_ kicks forward as if being driven by a slaverdriver’s whip. Felix staggers, unprepared, and Carver catches his arm with a laugh as the wind stings their faces and the ocean rushes by, spray kicking up to kiss the deck and dew against their sunwarmed skin.

“See what I mean?” Carver says, grinning freely for the first time in a very long while. The wind tears through his hair like playful fingers, and his tabard flaps against Felix’s legs as they stand close together, heat bleeding where their bodies touch conservatively. Felix turns his face into it, letting the sea-salt brush his cheeks in welcome.

“It’s _amazing_ ,” he admits. His words are almost lost to the plunge of the waves, and yet the ship moves smoothly, borne up onto the surface of the water by Alain’s clever weather-working. He turns to look over his shoulder. The boy still stands on the quarterdeck, but his fingers are slowing and his brow smoothing as the incantation comes to an end. Felix looks with Fade-touched eyes, and sees the threads of Alain’s magic binding together in a long rope cast over the ship like a shroud, or a spider’s tight-woven web. Then he brings his hands together and binds the spell in place, and the _Silverbird_ seems to settle under their feet.

Carver hums agreement and releases him. Felix finds he misses the contact sorely, and hooks his thumbs in his belt to hide it. “I’ve sailed a few times with her before, and it never gets old. C’mon then, I’m starving. Let’s see what we can kick up in the galley.”

///

Carver browns well for a Southerner. The first few days at sea he is a blowsy, sun-kissed pink, but soon it ages into a respectable golden color that stands well against the dazzling blue sky and reminds Felix achingly of Tevinter. He is wholly another creature on the decks of Isabela’s frigate: bare-backed and lithe without his armor, hale as a man ten years younger, and clambering all over the rigging like a monkey with not even a shadow of fear despite the dangerous drop.

“He’s sailed with you before,” Felix says to her at the end of the third day, leaning against the rail at her side. They’re up on the quarterdeck, though the bosun is steering, as the sun sinks fat and self-satisfied into the sea and the breeze blows stiff out of the north. Isabela tips her hat—somehow still clinging to her windswept hair—and winks.

“Good eye, Tevinter. Not that I blame you. Carver’s easy to look at.” She sighs, eyes following Carver’s nimble progress up the mizzen with something more than professional interest. “Such a pity I can never persuade him to stay. No one rides for free, you see, but I can hardly charge the brother of the Champion of Kirkwall. So, I put him to work.”

“Why haven’t you put _me_ to work yet, Admiral?” he teases, dares to brush his elbow against the supple curve of her waist. She laughs and nudges back warmly, but it lacks the spark of heat that Felix has come to expect from a beautiful woman. Whether the fault lies with him or with her, he isn’t certain.

“I dunno, Shoulders says you’re noble or something,” she drawls. “Thought you were too posh for hard work.”

“I’m a Warden now, my lady. I suppose I’ll have to get used to hard work sooner or later.”

“Touché.” She smiles archly and her eyes follow the same path they had with Carver, tracing his body from head to toe. “First you’ll need to get out of all that armor. Terribly cumbersome climbing the rigging that way.”

Felix plucks at his tabard, considering. “Are you offering a lesson, then, Admiral?”

“Well naturally. You ought to learn from the best.” She peers at him from beneath her hat, arms folded strategically. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights, Tevinter.”

“We’re about to find out, I guess.”

Under her keen gaze, he pulls his belt free and slips out of his boots and tabard. The chainmail tunic is unbuckled in a trice with help from Isabela’s agile fingers, and the whole of it dumped in a deck locker to await retrieval. In fitted leather trousers and his loose, billowy shirt stark white against his skin, he stands akimbo for inspection. Isabela clucks her tongue in approval.

“Ve _rry_ nice. This is Tevinter style, isn’t it?” She fingers the smooth cotton of his shirt where it lays open over his chest, and he holds rigidly still to keep from pulling away. For all his earlier teasing, there’s something about the unsolicited touch that crawls beneath his skin unpleasantly. She notices, and drops her hand without a word. “You should convince the Wardens to adjust the cut of their armor to accommodate _multicultural_ backgrounds. I’m sure plenty of people would be appreciative.” She winks, as natural a gesture as breathing, and turns on her heel. “Come along then, pup, it’s time you earned your keep.”

* * *

Carver is perched on the crossbeam of the mizzen when he sees them. Isabela strides across the deck like the Queen of Antiva, thigh-high boots thunking against the wood with every stride, her mouth a wide white slash of grinning teeth and her brown arms swinging as she makes for the starboard rigging. Felix follows behind like a well-trained puppy, eager and tense with it, barely keeping the buoyancy from infecting the rhythm of his stride. He looks healthier than he ever has in the light of the dying sun, free of his armor and his stiff initiate’s pride. His shirt, asymmetrical as it is, is still wrapped carefully around his torso to hide the scars beneath. Carver can almost pretend they don’t exist as he leans out over the deck for a better view.

He still remembers his first sailing lesson vividly. Isabela was even freer then, callow and reckless, her sleek musculature impeccable as she swarmed over the lines of her very own ship with speed and grace that put even her graceful land-striding sashay to shame. Carver was painfully clumsy in her wake, and fell into the sea twice, coming up spluttering and clinging like a drowned rat to the line around his waist.

He hopes Felix won’t face the same fate. They stand close together at the rail, dark heads bowed in tandem as she imparts whatever sparse wisdom she deems worth sharing before throwing him to the sharks. At least she deigns to secure him with a line around his waist. Carver can see Felix’s protests from where he straddles the mizzen’s crossbeam, and Isabela throws her head back in riotous laughter. Whatever she says in reply is enough to convince him, and he lets her knot the rope around his waist, her hands brushing his sides teasingly as she works. At last she pronounces him ready and she sets off herself, quick as a shiprat, brown thighs and arms gleaming with salt and sweat as she rises high into the sails and disappears from view.

Felix balances briefly on his toes, rubbing his hands together. He’s barefoot, Carver notes, leather trousers pushed up above his ankles and his bony feet curling against the deck as if testing its stability. Then he gives the line around his waist a surreptitious tug and steps onto the rail of the ship.

Getting onto the rigging is always the most frightening part. The day of Carver’s first lesson was a squally one—no rain, but the clouds a boiling roof of grey over their heads and the sea pitching and yawning unpredictably. Carver, barely over his initial seasickness, had stood at the rail as the _Silverbird_ ploughed the waves cheerfully, every swoop of her bow answered by the sickening drop of his stomach. The sea had never seemed to close before. He'd stared at it, clutching the rigging but not quite brave enough to swing himself out over the perilous waters, while Isabela leapt hither and yon like a will o’ the wisp, or a spirit in a Dalish fairy-tale, whimsical and cackling madly with laughter.

She is laughing now, delighted peals that trickle past his ears in snatches, caught by the wind and away again. The sails blocks her from his view, but she must be nearby. Carver smiles absently at the sound and watches as Felix steels himself and swings out and over the water.

He’s a natural. Battlemage training, perhaps, given more to flexibility than brute strength, lends him an instinctive limber grace that makes the climb look easy. Carver pushes up from his seat and balances along the crossbeam to the nearest stretch of rigging and swings down onto it. Felix reappears, a small brown blot crawling spiderlike and slow across to where Isabela waits, propped in the fo’c’sle lookout.

Carver’s eyes are drawn away by a similar blot off on the horizon, framed perfectly between two flapping sails for a split second. He frowns and climbs lower, angling for a better look. Then a shout goes up from the deck—“Slavers! Off the starboard bow!”—and the entire ship swarms into action.

Carver slides down the rigging to where Felix clings, paralyzed by the sudden change in pace. Isabela has abandoned him, of course, faffing off to parts unknown to captain her ship into battle, and he looks impossibly relieved to see Carver climbing nimbly to perch beside him.

“Stay calm,” he says kindly, one eye over Felix’s shoulder to the fat-bellied galleon on the horizon. “We’re picking up speed, but it’s a smooth day. Just come back down the way you came, one foot after the other.”

He talks him through it as a terrific wind is summoned up around them, courtesy of Alain who stands bow-legged at the stern, and soon they’re back on deck, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. No one is without a job—the masts are suddenly laden with sailors turning out every stitch of canvas, and belowdecks he can hear the slam of the cannons being run out and the shouts of the midshipman calling out orders.

Carver has taken hold of Felix’s collar for stability and is guiding him back to their cabin when Isabela’s voice cuts through the rabble like a bell: “Arm yourselves for battle, boys, we’d love to have you join!” She’s at the wheel, kitted out in her light leather armor and armed to the teeth, eyes flashing as she steers them through the magical gale. Carver tips her a very un-seaman-like salute and tugs Felix below.

“Can we?” Felix asks eagerly.

“As if I would turn down an offer like that,” Carver scoffs. They plaster themselves to the wall to avoid two sailors careening by loaded with shot, and then they’re slipping into their cabin and scrambling for their armor. “No chainmail,” he warns, eschewing his own steel plate for boiled leather. “If you go over, you’ll sink like a stone.”

The idea crosses Felix’s face like a ghost, and his ready smile goes a bit stale. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maker.”

“You needn’t join,” Carver begins, but Felix cuts him off with a scathing look and begins pulling on his own light armor. He snatches up his staff and scrubs a hand over his hair before standing erect, heels snapped together as if presenting himself for inspection. Carver eyes him up and down slowly on purpose, and is rewarded with a faint blush and a sideways look. “You’ll do. No fire spells—we want this cargo taken alive. Ice would be best, but,” and he makes a face in tandem with Felix, “I know it’s not your strongest. Just… try not to sink anyone, okay?”

Felix rolls his eyes. “Sir yes sir,” he snarks, and Carver flings open the door with his heart in his throat. Time to kill some slavers.

* * *

For all the rushing about, it takes the _Silverbird_ a good quarter-hour to catch the slaver vessel. Felix waits on the quarterdeck with Carver, staying out of everyone’s way and generally trying to look like he knows what he’s doing. He’s only just barely begun to try his hand at sailing, and now he’s expected to fight in a sea battle? Well, not expected—expect _ing_. He’s still not much of a killer, but the thrill of battle is one he’s slowly growing accustomed to. And to fight beside Carver, in his estimation, is one of the greatest honors of being a Grey Warden.

He’s not ashamed to admit to himself that he hungers for Carver’s approval. Ever since he woke up in a healer’s tent outside Adamant and found himself forgiven for the unbidden use of blood magic on Carver’s person, he’s sought to earn those fleeting smiles that manifest so unexpectedly, the firm nods of respect in the aftermath of a battle well-fought. He pushes himself harder to earn those tokens of Carver’s acknowledgement, and he likes to think that aspect of their relationship goes both ways. He bounces on the balls of his feet a little, his staff keeping him anchored, and hopes he’ll have the chance to impress Carver today.

“Hey.” Carver nudges into him with his elbow, throwing him off-balance in more ways than one. “Stop me if you’ve done this before, but there’s a procedure here and I’d rather you didn’t go overboard in the thick of things.”

He’s got the tarred end of a rope in one hand and a cocky, blue-eyed smile that turns Felix’s gut to jelly. “Go on, then,” he says, holding his arms away from his body. Working around his staff, Carver loops the rope around his waist and ties a snug knot with a little loop within easy reach at his hip. This close he smells of fresh, scouring sea air and sword polish, and Felix tries not to breathe him in too obviously as he rattles off instructions.

“This will release when you pull here,” he says, taking Felix’s hand between his own and resting it against the slipknot. “Otherwise, hang on here.” Light touches direct him to the rope’s length, stretching slackly up into the rigging. “Use it to swing across when we’re close enough to board. If worse comes to worst, just cut the damn thing with your spirit blade.”

“Yessir,” Felix clips out, and Carver snorts.

“Right. I think you’re gonna be fine.”

* * *

The roar of the canons and the thick, pungent ichor of blackpowder smoke tear through Carver’s senses, watering his eyes and turning his heart into a drumbeat racing far ahead of his body. He stands at the rail of the _Silverbird_ with an eye to Isabela and a grappling-hook in his hands. The slaver galleon is a lumbering druffalo beside their halla-swift frigate, and they’ve pulled about and got her abreast of the slavers without any trouble. At the signal, he hauls back and slings the rope across. He’s lucky—the prongs of the hook bite into the deck, scraping the wood before catching hard up against the rail. All down the line, hooks sail out into the air, glinting in the sun, and at Isabela’s keening cry, they’re up and over and boarding the slaver vessel.

As swift as they were, there’s no element of surprise here. Carver leaps straight into the waiting arms of a scrappy, nut-brown sailor with bared black teeth and a pair of mismatched but wickedly sharp knives. He ducks a fire-hot graze that breaks the skin of his jaw and sinks his blade into the fellow’s stomach. He goes down with a gurgle and a gout of blood, and Carver turns to the next foe.

He admits he didn’t really expect Felix to board the galleon, at least not right away, but as Carver slices through two men at once, he turns and sees the mage running lightly through the chaos, spirit blade in one hand and staff in the other. Lightning crackles around the counter-stone in a glittering orb, but Carver knows it’s only a focus. As if in confirmation, Felix slams the bladed end of the staff to the deck, and a faint sheen of purply-blue slides over him like a second skin, a spirit barrier to match the Fade-flash of his blade.

Carver longs to watch his friend in action, sleek and sinuous as a panther as he moves through the fighting like a shadow; but the slavers won’t go down without a fight, so he turns his attention to battle. They match the crew of the _Silverbird_ fairly evenly for numbers—it’s a larger vessel, but most of the space is given over to its wretched cargo—and they fight tooth and nail, bellowing hair-raising battle cries in Arcanum as they grapple with the invaders. Carver catches sight of one of their own, a leather-tough elven woman, on the verge of being overpowered by a burly, black-skinned Rivaini, and he puts his shoulder down and charges, using the momentum to skewer the man with his claymore. It comes free of his corpse with a heavy wet sound, and the elf tips him a nod of thanks before darting up the mast as quick as a wink.

A fistful of rock sails by his head, narrowly missing him, and of _course_ they have mages, too. More than one. Their weather mage, a scrawny older woman with a staff like a whip, summons boiling water and steam to wreath herself from attack. Two more stand at the prow behind a magical barrier, sending out flickering, highly-controlled tongues of flame to scorch and snap the crew of the _Silverbird_ into submission. Carver decapitates a slaver who gets too close and turns his attention to them.

Before he can charge, Felix is there, a terrible rictus of a grin on his face as he raises his staff and brings it down in a crackle of lightning. Smoke chars the air, and the enemy barrier fractures into pieces like broken glass. For a moment the mages are caught off-guard, clearly not expecting that trick, and in that moment of hesitation Carver rushes them with a scream like a wild bronto. He’s only half-aware of Felix at his side, clicking into place like a limb he hadn’t known was missing. It feels right to be so close to that crackling force—the hair lifts on his arms as he paints the deck with slaver blood, and when the remaining mage tries to throw a glyph of paralysis at him, he ducks and lets it funnel into the focus crystal of Felix’s staff, only to rebound and seize the mage in an implacable grip. Felix runs him through with his blade and shouts in triumph.

Half a second of victory is all it takes for things to go awry. A Tevinter sailor with arms like ham hocks and no weapon in sight seizes Felix by the back of his tabard and shakes him like a puppy. The staff clatters to the deck and Carver, unaccountably, scrambles to catch it before it can tumble overboard. He comes up again in time to watch as Felix is thrown to the deck like a rag doll where he lies, dazed and limp as the giant— _Maker_ he’s tall, is he part qunari?—reaches back to clout him on the head.

Carver doesn’t think—he hauls back with his claymore and _throws_ it with all his might. The massive greatsword moves through the air like treacle, laden with its own weight, but it’s quick enough to sink into the sailor’s shoulder and fling away again under its momentum, skittering across the deck and disappearing into the fray. The man roars in pain and stoops, nearly falling forward as if to crush Felix under his massive weight.

And Felix still isn’t moving. Carver's stomach plummets, but before he can jump on the slaver’s back and attempt to strangle him to death, Felix rolls onto his back and thrusts his spirit blade up into the giant’s chest. A burst of force magic keeps the man from crushing him, and the corpse falls to the side with a sound like a sack of meat hitting the butcher block. Relief breaks over Carver like a wave, turning his muscles to so much wet noodle. Which is when Felix turns, a dazzling smile on his blood-spattered face, and Carver's heart thumps heavily in his chest. Well fuck.

In an instant, the elation on Felix’s face turns to horror. Carver spins on his heels, slipping a little on the blood-slicked deck, and gets his hands up in time to keep from being stabbed in the face with the serrated edge of a wicked-looking polearm. The slaver snarls at him, her lips pulled taut and smeared with blood, and hauls back for another strike.

Felix is there, suddenly, bent a little at the waist with what must be bruised ribs, at the very least. But he holds his ground like a _chevalier_ , using the slaver’s momentum against her. She runs herself straight into his blade and it dissolves inside her like so much smoke, leaving her to bleed out onto the deck.

And the battle is over. Isabela has the captain of the vessel at the tip of one knife, the other making lazy circles in the air as she describes what, exactly, is going to happen to them. Zevran is at her side, hip cocked and face devoid of its usual smirk. It’s not hard to see why—some of the _Silverbird_ ’s crew has already been below, and they’re bringing up bodies. Not slaver bodies, but the slaves who were put to  the oars and worked to death before even reaching their destination. Carver’s stomach sours for the first time since the battle was joined, and goes to hunt for his sword.

Somehow, he lets Isabela talk him into overseeing cleanup. Her own first—or is it second?—mate is put in charge of bringing the galleon to port in the Marches, and the one-eyed ex-Raider puts him to work tipping bodies overboard and making sure the slaves are seen to. Malnourished and overworked, many of them are nonetheless willing and able to help man the ship, and a fair few of them are ex-sailors themselves, so that part goes as planned, at least. Finding food and water and proper clothes takes a little longer, and by the time the sun is sinking into the welcoming arms of the horizon, Carver is beginning to tire.

But eventually all the bodies are disposed of and the galleon is sailing under its own power, and Carver is more than happy to return to the _Silverbird_. Not just for the familiarity of the little frigate’s boards beneath his feet, but for Felix, safe and sound and… ah… snapping irritably at something Zevran has just said. Carver edges closer to where they stand on the quarterdeck with Isabela, trying to slide into the conversation without appearing too obvious.

“That’s not swordsmanship, that’s… embarrassing,” Isabela is saying. She’s smirking in the face of Felix’s annoyance, and when she catches sight of Carver, her smile widens. “Tell him, won’t you, Shoulders? I won’t have him fighting raiders and boarding ships if all he can do is whack about indiscriminately with that shiny glow-stick of his.”

“It’s a spirit blade,” Felix growls, avoiding Carver’s eyes. “And it kills people just fine, thank you.”

“ _Just fine_? Tevinter, death is an art!” Zevran rejoins the fray, caramel eyes narrowed as he flanks Isabela with an identical expression of scorn. “You are a master of your craft—at least have the decency to admit _we_ are the masters of _ours_.”

Carver swallows back a guffaw at Felix’s prickly outrage. “Come on, Fee, you don’t turn this shit down. A free lesson from a Crow and the best duelist on the high seas? That doesn’t happen to just _anyone_.”

“What about you?” Felix asks, a little helplessly.

“Carver knows to play to his strengths,” Zevran purrs. “He is a warrior bred and born. You, I think, have depths as yet unplumbed.”

Felix actually flushes at that. Carver thinks it’s adorable. “What would you have of me, then?”

“Can you conjure other things besides a longsword?” Isabela wonders. “It’s a lovely sword, mind, but it’s a bit… plain.”

Felix’s eyes snap and sparkle at the challenge and he paces a little ways away from them, turning on his heel in a neat circle. The hair on Carver’s arms lifts up as Felix makes a smooth gesture like drawing a sword from a scabbard, and out of thin air comes a long, ghostly blade, glimmering blue in the afternoon light. It’s a touch shorter than the spirit blade Carver has seen him wield before, with a faint curve that ends in a wickedly sharp tip, and the glittering handguard belongs to a Rivaini-style scimitar rather than the Tevene rapier Felix favors.

Isabela ooh’s and aah’s for a moment, examining the spirit blade closely but refusing to touch. It gives off powerful waves of magic even from where Carver stands, and it’s only his complete faith in Felix’s self-control that prevents him from backing away further.

“Very nice. What about two? Or are you restricted to one?”

“If your intent is to teach me your roguish ways, my lady admiral, I’m afraid you’ll have your work cut out for you,” Felix informs her dryly. “My staff serves for my other blade.”

“Your staff isn’t much good in close-quarters when you’re wielding a spirit blade,” Carver reminds him. “Go on, try it. Bet you can’t.”

Felix rolls his eyes at the simple jab. “I’m not a child, Carv.” Still, he banishes the scimitar and closes his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration. He lifts his arms above his head and back, mimicking Isabela’s easy grace, and from the empty space at either shoulder he pulls two blades: twin daggers, long and extravagantly curved, with razor-sharp pommels that are more blade than balance.

“ _That’s_ more like it,” Isabela says with approval. “Now get rid of those, boyo, I’m not dueling you with Fade weapons. Carver, darling, there are practice blades in my cabin, if you would be so kind?”

Carver sighs, resigning himself to playing cabin boy for the rest of the afternoon, and heads off to do her bidding.

///

They escort the slaver galleon to dock in Seere before setting out again, and the fat purse Isabela collects for her services—and the excess energy still rumbling through the crew after a successful haul—has everyone up on deck the first day out at sea. Carver is propped on the rail of the quarterdeck when Felix finds him, watching Zev and Isabela tussle one another in the midst of a ring of cheering sailors. He feels the mage’s warmth as Felix leans over the rail on his elbows, cat-curious.

“What’s this?”

“Boxing.” Carver swings his feet and gestures to the combatants as they come together again in a flurry of punches. It’s a little more graceless than the name deserves— _wrestling_ might be more apropos—but the two rogues know one another so well that finesse is hardly necessary. “Helps keep morale up, or something. _I_ think it’s just foreplay, but it’s hard to tell with those two.”

“Heard that!” Isabela called out over the jeers and hoots of the assembled sailors. She ducks a roundhouse kick and wraps her arm around Zev’s ankle, dumping him onto his back. “Yield!”

“Never!” He twists free with a heel to her nose that makes Carver wince. Blood fountains onto the deck, but she seems unconcerned—and then Alain is there, pushing his way to the front of the crowd, although he does not intervene. Instead he gestures from a safe distance, and a little blue glow surrounds Isabela’s nose until the blood slows and stops, though it still spatters the boards beneath their feet and smears across her face like a vicious grin.

“That all you got, you blond bastard?”

“Careful how you taunt, my lady Captain. Crows fight to the _death_.”

Felix is almost leaning on Carver’s shoulder, he’s so intent on the match. “They’re not _actually_ going to kill each other, are they?”

“’Course not. They like each other too much for that. Plus, Tabris would hunt Bela down and skin her—or maybe Sebastian would do the same to Zev, so they’d be even.”

Isabela lets out a sudden bloodcurdling scream, piercing the air. Everyone ducks, even Zevran, and in that split second of distraction she has him on his belly, arms yanked back and her knee in the small of his back. “Yield!”

“Always resorting to dramatics,” Zevran drawls with his face in the deck. “Yes, very well, _mi cariña._ The battle is yours.”

“Lovely!” Isabela lets him up and kisses his cheek with a resounding smack. “All right you lazy lugs, who’s next?”

“Ooh! Felix volunteers,” Carver shouts, and Felix shoves him halfheartedly, mortified.

“I do not! Who would I fight? Not Isabela, certainly, she’d bend me in half in a trice.”

Isabela coughs out a laugh and slings her arm around Alain’s slender shoulders. She tops him by nearly a head, and he blushes prettily at her willful handling of his person as she calls, “What about Alain?”

“C’mon,” Carver whinges, leaning hard into Felix until he has to break away or tumble to the deck. “Mage against mage! That way I won’t break you accidentally.”

“Oh, you’re _hilarious_. Fereldan brute.”

It’s nothing Carver hasn’t heard before, but from Felix the insult doesn’t even register. “Honestly, I don’t think you can do it. You mages can never resist a chance to show off. Bet you’ve never even lifted a finger to pick your own nose without using magic.”

Felix growls deep in his throat and finally shoves back, hard and unexpected enough to send Carver stumbling a few paces. “ _Fine_. I’ll take your bet. Let’s go, Alain. No magic. Just fists and our wits.”

Alain scrubs his palms together nervously. “I’m not much of a fighter…”

“Oh hush, sweet thing.” Isabela presses a kiss to the side of his face, sticky with blood, and he grimaces at the red smear it leaves behind. “You’re as fierce as any of us. Give the nasty ol’ Vint a run for his money.”

That seems to do the trick. Alain shuffles out of his light sailor’s robe, a knee-length garment styled after the Circle robes he likely grew up in, but weatherproofed and humming with enchantments. Underneath he’s just smooth chestnut skin and a pair of snug canvas trousers, lithe and a bit weedy as many Circle mages are, but with a surprising amount of corded muscle defining his arms and the line of his abdomen. Carver watches Felix do the same, shrugging free of tabard and boots but leaving on his shirt. He knows why, and he hopes the extra cloth won’t be too much of a target during the bout.

Alain shakes his shaggy hair out like a dog and crouches in the ring, ready. Carver holds his breath.

Felix springs at him suddenly, quicker than Carver would have reckoned. Alain manages to catch his weight and they scrap briefly before parting again, circling each other. The rest of the crew is egging them on—well, mainly Alain—and Carver gives a shout for Felix too, just to even the score. Felix gives a little wave of acknowledgement and then Alain puts his head down and charges.

Neither of them have much experience with hand-to-hand. Alain was Circle raised, and now he works mainly with the weather, safe in the knowledge that he has an entire crew of bloodthirsty raiders to see to his welfare. Felix has been trained for battle, ranged and close-combat alike, but fighting empty-handed and without magic puts him a little out of his depth. His swings are weak, and he tussles halfheartedly when Alain grabs him bodily around the waist, clocking an elbow against his ear out of luck more than skill. Still, it achieves the desired result—Alain wriggles free and leaves himself open for a grapple from behind, which Felix takes.

But Alain, quicker on his feet now that he’s got the feel for the fight, bends forward and flips Felix over his head, and that’s when things go wrong. Felix’s shirt has pulled free of his trousers and Alain’s maneuver catches the billowy fabric up to tangle ‘round his shoulders. In his struggle to right himself, Felix only gets himself more tangled—the shirt traps his head and arms, and suddenly his torso is completely bared to the whole crew, every last scarred and battered inch revealed like a slab of meat at the market.

Alain steps back, clearly unnerved. There’s a scatter of whispers as the cheers die down—Felix is struggling still, pinned to the deck by his own garment, and Carver’s heart rises in his throat. He jumps down from the rail and pushes through the crowd to kneel at Felix’s side.

“Hey, relax. I’ve got you.”

Felix’s body stills, but does not relax. His ribs are heaving with exertion, and his rasping breaths sound more like sobs than pants. Carver detangles the fabric quickly and pulls it down to cover his friend’s modesty. Felix’s face is red and pinched when he looks at it, and his eyes are wide and haunted. He stumbles to his feet without Carver’s help and gives a sort of wild nod to Alain.

“Good fight. Clearly you raiders know what you’re about.”

And then he’s gone, a hunched figure shuffling unmolested through the crowd. Carver pulls himself to his feet, feeling stiff as an old man.

“I-I’m sorry,” Alain stammers. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.” Carves brushes him off, maybe too brusque, but the kid will survive. Time to divert their attention. “All right kiddies, who wants to take me on?”

After a moment of muttered deliberation, a sailor steps forward whose name Carver doesn’t remember. He’s big, a bit of a belly on him, but his arms are something to watch for. “Reckon I can take you. A Warden with no armor’s not so tough.”

Carver gives a solemn bow. “May those be the last words you ever speak in ignorance.”

He wins, of course. He’s too full of pent-up anger and fear not to. He hasn’t seen Felix bare since stumbling over him half-dressed in their rooms at Weisshaupt, and while the scars have healed, they’re a stark reminder of what Carver found behind that warded cell door. He unleashes the fury of the Architect on the poor unsuspecting sailor, and Alain has to heal two sprained fingers after, but the man takes no offense. In the aftermath, Isabela breaks out a celebratory cask and Carver disappears to hunt Felix down.

He finds him in the rigging near the fore of the _Silverbird._ He leans back against it like he was born on a ship, feet firmly braced and arms tangled in the rope to keep himself secure. His shirt is tucked firmly into his trousers again, but it tore in the fight and the V of the collar lies open almost to his navel. He nods a greeting and Carver ties in beside him with a grunt.

“Bit nippy up here.”

The wind is fucking brutal, is what he means to say, but something more polished comes out instead. Felix huffs something in response and Carver grits his teeth. He can hardly remember the last time there was an awkward silence between them.

“Felix…” He doesn’t know what to say. He _never_ knows what to say. “Are you okay?”

Felix shudders a little, and he doesn’t know if it’s the wind or the question. “Bit cold. Bit sore.”

Is that an opening? “The… scars, you mean?”

“Yeah.” Felix slips a hand inside his shirt, rubbing absently. “I had this elfroot stuff Tabris gave me, but I’ve run out.”

“I don’t have that, but I’ve got some massage liniment that might help. It’s a cream, sort of, for my hands. Don’t use it as much as I should.”

Felix cocks his head, and it’s the first time he’s looked Carver in the face since he got up here. “Your hands?”

Carver holds one out in illustration. It’s a warrior’s hand, bulky with callouses and torn ligaments that have healed over thicker, a broken bone that didn’t set quite right, scars gained in battle and in folly. The past ten years have not always been kind to him, and his hands tell the tale. Felix looks at his own hand then, calloused but not as badly strained as Carver’s—a noble’s hand first and foremost, even with the marks of battle and blood magic written in the creases of his palm.

“That would be… nice,” he says at last. He sounds sincere, at least, if a bit taken aback. “Thank you.”

The impromptu party is still going strong, and it’s easy for them to slip past the hubbub to the calm of their little fore cabin. Carver leaves him be and goes to rummage in his locker. He hasn’t used it in a while, actually—it had gotten crammed down in the bottom of his pack on the journey from Weisshaupt, and the rhythm of life at sea is so different from what he’s used to that a lot of his ingrained habits have fallen to the wayside. He finds it, nevertheless, a wide-mouthed clay vial with his initials inked on the bottom. He uncorks it to find it undamaged and still thick and greasy as it should be, smelling faintly of cloves and blackpowder.

Felix is sitting at the edge of his bunk when Carver turns around, fiddling with the torn edges of his shirt. “Should I…”

“If you’re comfortable, yeah.”

The shirt comes off. Carver doesn’t stare, but he doesn’t avert his eyes either, and Felix lets Carver push him down on his belly on the thin mattress. He knows it’s a small luxury to be afforded a cabin at all, when they could have just as easily bunked with the rest of the crew in a pair of hammocks, and he’s thankful for the privacy. This moment, this position—kneeling on the mattress at Felix’s hip, Felix spread out on his stomach like a feast—is startlingly intimate. Carver finds he doesn’t want to share it.  

“It’s a bit cold,” he warns, though he spreads the liniment between his palms to warm it before resting his hands on Felix’s back. Felix is tense anyway, and Carver takes a little time to soothe him, smoothing the cream up and down the planes of his back lightly, making little circles with his fingertips. He can feel Felix start to unwind beneath his touch and he eases one leg over to straddle Felix’s hips. It’s a bit of a provocative position, but Felix doesn’t complain. So Carver leans forward, pushes his weight into his palms, and starts to work at his back in earnest.

Felix lets out a surprised grunt, but it breaks off into a low groan as Carver melts the cream into his scarred back. The texture of his skin is odd under his fingers, thick and ropey in places and deeply indented in others, but he doesn’t hold back. There’s no danger of inflaming them after so long healed, and working the stiffness out can only help matters.

He finds a knot curled up against Felix’s spine in his explorations, just offset of his shoulder blade. It’s a stubborn thing, and Carver works at it with his thumb until Felix hisses and the skin goes smooth and soft as butter. “Sorry,” Carver grunts. “All right?”

“Hmmm. Yes.”

His voice is soft and slow but alert, no longer strung with tension. Carver slows his movements accordingly. His palms ease back, framing his spine from nape to sacrum, then push out again, tracing the suggestion of wings up over his ribs. Felix shudders under him. And then he’s aware, sudden as a blow to the head, that he’s hard. Hard as fuck, and pushed up against Felix’s arse like it’s the best thing since Isabela’s thigh-high boots. Carver exhales shakily and eases back just a bit and—is he imagining it, or did Felix push back, lift his arse just the slightest bit to follow the weight of Carver’s hips? A shiver tickles his scalp and he pushes his thumbs into Felix’s waist. Does he dare?

Fuck it. Carver rubs his thumbs in slow, rolling circles, moving lower to trace the skin hidden by Felix’s trousers. Felix, a boneless pile of mush, doesn’t even twitch. He dips lower, and yeah, that was definitely an arse grope. Unmistakably.

Felix turns his head on the pillow. His eyes are closed but he’s smiling, one hand curled demurely under his chin. There’s no trace of the man hiding in the rigging, tight with cold and haunted by old demons. Just Fee, comfortable and warm, familiar under his hands though Carver has never touched him this way before. His lips part, and his voice rasps out, “Feels good.”

 _Oh_. Carver’s fingers dig harder into his hips, greasy and warm, and push at the waist of Felix’s trousers. They slide down easily. Were they unlaced before? Carver can’t remember. He can’t remember because there are scars here too, but lighter, and he mutes the anger by sliding his hands down and grabbing that glorious arse in two big, unashamed hands and _squeezing_.

Felix cries out and turns his head quickly into the pillow. His spine bends, a perfect curve, pushing his arse back into Carver’s grip. Carver is breathing harder as he works the muscles in a clumsy parody of the massage he just gave—it’s lacking in finesse, but he can’t help it. The flesh beneath his hands is warm and plush, a little on the lean side but so smooth, filling his palms as readily as a pair of tits. And oh, the treasure in between. His hips rock of their own accord, rutting against Felix’s muscular thigh as Carver squeezes lightly, then lets one thumb slip into the crease to rub the soft skin there. Felix groans into his pillow and Carver watches the skin redden with the force of his touch, satisfaction burning in his groin and down his neck and chest.

“Felix,” he rasps, because he can’t justify taking this further without some word of encouragement, “is this okay?”

“Nngh. More than.” Felix turns his head, craning a bit to look over his shoulder. “You?” Carver can’t resist—he bends down, cock pushing rudely up against his friend’s backside, and smears a clumsy kiss against Felix’s mouth. Felix is stubbled and smiling, and it feels so damned good Carver can’t breathe.

“Maker’s tits, yeah.” He rolls his hips as if to illustrate the point and Felix gasps a little. “You know you’re gorgeous. I’ve want to kiss that smirk off your face for bloody _ages_.”

“Do it, then.”

Carver can never resist a challenge. He eases away, coaxes Felix around to sprawl on his back, and Carver likes this better because now their pricks are in alignment, even buried under layers of cloth, and it burns so sweetly. He tweaks Felix’s nipples, flat and brown on his smooth chest, and tongues his way into his mouth without preamble. It’s graceless but it’s good—Felix opens for him instantly and cedes control, bucking his weight up into Carver as Carver tastes every salty corner of his sea-stained mouth.

“Maker’s mercy,” Felix gasps when Carver pulls back with a dirty wet sound. His eyes are all pupil in a thin ring of brown, his face flushed as if in high fever. His nipples aren’t flat anymore, and Carver rubs them with his thumbs, still a little slick from the massage liniment. Felix wriggles, mouth open, stained red with use and gleaming. “Bloody _do_ something.”

Carver does. He tears at the laces of his own trousers, just enough to pull his cock out, and there’s enough liniment on his palms to grease the slide of his hand. A few strokes and he’s gasping, the dark sinks of Felix’s eyes burning him up from the inside. He fumbles at his friend’s smalls with his off hand. They’re flimsy little things: soft, well-worn linen that barely cover enough skin to cradle his balls, and his dark prick slides free easily. It feels weird to have a cock to each hand, so Carver takes them both together in his right. And that, oh, Maker in his _city_ it’s amazing.

Felix whines high in the back of his throat as Carver begins stroking them in earnest. He’s so close already, and he doesn’t even know how or why, but watching Felix bite down on the edge of his thumb, unable to tear his eyes away from Carver’s face, is doing things to him. His hips rock of their own accord and he’s fucking his own fist now, fucking Felix’s cock. His spine curves forward, and Felix rises on his elbows to meet him. Their mouths clash messily as the tension builds like a bowstring pulled taut, lips barely meeting, tongues sliding against each other with wet enthusiasm as they pant and groan and huff out their pleasure. It’s quick and rough and dirty, and maybe a little bit awkward, but Carver’s belly is tense and his thighs are burning and it’s better than anything he’s felt in a long, long while.

Felix grabs at the back of his neck suddenly. Their foreheads grind together, slippery with sweat, and Carver is staring directly into Felix’s face when he comes with a tiny, broken cry. His face screws up and his mouth falls open—Carver could count the freckles on his sun-brown nose they’re so close. But instead he feels the sticky heat of Felix’s spend on his hand, slicking his cock, and that small detail seizes the base of his spine in an iron grip and squeezes ‘til he comes.

He shouts, he thinks. Carver looks down, catching his breath, and the white streaks of his come on Felix’s supple belly strikes hard at him, hard enough that his cock twitches in his grip and he doesn’t think he’s getting soft at _all_.

“Maker,” Felix whispers. He shudders and he’s still holding on to Carver’s neck, firm enough to pull him in for another kiss. It’s sloppy and mismatched and perfect. “Fucking Void, Carver.” His eyes are wide and glittering black in the low light of the cabin. Carver wants to lick his eyelashes.

“All right?”

“Think so.” His chest is heaving, and his cock is still hard, too, laying rigid against his navel. “Think I could go again, actually. If you wanted.”

Carver wants. “Yeah. Just let me… my trousers…”

Felix sniggers at him as he wrests himself free of his clothes, clumsy in the wake of his orgasm. Then he tugs Felix free of his own clothes and the laughter turns to something else. Carver grabs a pillow from under Felix’s head and smothers him playfully even as he bends to lick and nip at the spend soiling Felix’s stomach. “Gonna suck you, if that’s okay.”

Felix stares at him over the edge of the pillow, wide-eyed. “Yeah, it’s okay. _Maker_.”

Carver takes him in his mouth: thick, hot, tasting like himself. He’s saltier than Carver’s used to, but maybe that’s just life at sea, or maybe it’s his body adjusting to the taint, but he doesn’t _care_. The only room in his head is occupied by the hot slippery weight of Felix on his tongue, the briny hollow of his slit, the generous slide and give of the foreskin under his lips.

It takes Felix a little longer to come this time, and he’s sobbing into the pillow by the time he finally spends in Carver’s mouth. Carver swallows because it’s polite, but also because he sort of likes it. Then, because he can’t stand it anymore, he reaches down and tugs himself to a messy, too-quick completion that spatters thinly against Felix’s dark thigh.

They’re sweaty and hot, but the bunk is narrow—Carver lies flush against him as their racing heartbeats start to slow. Felix is soft as rubber under Carver’s weight, his arm curled under Carver’s neck and wrist bent to run his fingers through Carver’s hair. Carver nuzzles close and breathes him in.

“That was nice,” Felix whispers. The words might sound hollow from anyone else, but Carver can hear the weight of truth in the hum of Felix’s voice beneath his ear.

“It wasn’t too bad, was it?”

“Not bad at all.”

Carver doesn’t know how to tell him that this is normal. The taint lives in them, making them faster, stronger, _harder_. They burn hot and bright, and then they go out suddenly, like an explosion. It’s not the first time Carver’s fucked a friend for relief, or comfort, or just plain simplicity, and it likely won’t be the last. Sex can mean something to him, still, or nothing at all, but it’s easy—an easy way to feel alive, to feel like he has some control over his fate. He doesn’t know how to say any of that. He also doesn’t know how to say that he hopes it’s only ever Felix, from now on.

Before he’s done worrying about it, he falls asleep. And that’s easy too.


	2. Chapter 2

Felix wakes some nights later to an empty cabin. Carver’s bunk is rumpled, so he did come to bed at some point—Felix was too bone-weary from a day spent playing sailor to stay awake for dice, but Carver remained behind, sending a small, private smile his way when Felix bowed out of the game. The memory of it slithers over his body like a warm droplet of oil and he turns over in bed, suddenly restless.

The sense memory of Carver’s hands on him is a potent thing. He conjures the sound of Carver’s breath in his ear, the copper-salt taste of his split lip on his tongue, and shivers. They haven’t spoken of it, but he knows Carver thinks of it. He feels his gaze on him sometimes, hot enough to scald, and the small smiles he passes Felix’s way during the daylight hours are a horrible tease. At night they return to their separate bunks with silent accord, but Felix dreams of him, has woken up twice in past nights with his smalls wet and his body still throbbing with the aftershocks. It’s not exactly subtle, and he wonders if Carver feels it too. The _need_. The burn. The softer emotions, too, fondness and easy camaraderie. The pang of childish delight whenever their arms brush or they laugh in tandem at the same joke. Felix shivers again, smiling, and climbs out of bed.

He pulls on a shirt over his loose linen hose and wanders up to the deck barefoot. The night is balmy, with a slight breeze that propels the _Silverbird_ smoothly through the dark waters. The ship is manned by only a few—the night watchman nods to him as he passes and jerks his head to the fore of the ship. Felix murmurs a thanks and moves silently to the prow where Carver stands, leaning out over the water, back bowed and elbows planted firm against the rail.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Carver flinches. “Maker, Felix, don’t do that.” His voice is hollow, and he doesn’t straighten up, doesn’t look him in the eye. Taken aback, Felix hesitates half-way to putting a hand on Carver’s shoulder.

“Sorry. I can leave you be.”

“No, it’s fine. I just wasn’t expecting company.”

Felix leans against the rail facing shipward, arse to the wood, and tips his head back to the star-studded sky. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t know how to break the ice. “Nice night.”

Carver makes a huffing sound that’s not quite a laugh. “Guess so. That why you’re here, and not in bed?”

“I woke up and you weren’t there.” And that just sounds pathetic. Felix grimaces down at the chipped surface of the deck and crosses one ankle over the other. “I was… concerned.” Hardly better.

Out of the blue-black darkness, Carver says, “It’s our birthday.”

“Our?” Felix asks automatically, and then mentally curses himself. The last traces of his good humor melt away between his toes. “Ah. You mean…”

“Bethy and I. Yeah.” He’s still bent over the rail, staring at the water as if it holds all the mysteries of the universe in its depths. “I can’t believe how long it’s been since she… it doesn’t feel like any time has passed at all, but it must have. Right? I have scars she’s never seen. I actually _need_ to shave in the mornings instead of just pretending. I’m older.” His voice cracks. “She isn’t.”

Felix thinks he should know what to say. His parents are dead, his dearest friend a country and an ocean away—he’s no stranger to loss. But his tongue feels like lead in his mouth, and so he just leans, making his body a bulwark for Carver to put his weight against. Carver sags against him and sighs.

“So fucking maudlin. Every damned year, like clockwork.”

“What do you usually do?” Felix asks. “To celebrate.”

Carver chokes out a wet laugh. “Drink myself into a stupor, usually. First year at Ansburg I got so pissing drunk I broke a few noses in before Stroud put me in the cells to sober up.” He rubs his thumb over his knuckles as if remembering the feel of bone crumpling under his fist. “I’ve tried to show a little more temperance since then, but. It’s.” He swallows, and doesn’t finish.

“Any drinks this year?” Felix asks carefully. He honestly can’t tell if Carver’s drunk—he can’t smell it on him, but Carver  has never been so emotionally raw in his presence, not unless he counts the blinding berserker rage that had overtaken him at Weisshaupt. Felix doesn’t think it counts.

“No, more’s the pity. Isabela wouldn’t let me. She knows me too well.” He sighs and pushes back from the rail at last, arms folded as he looks at Felix. His eyes are red-rimmed but dry, face more tired than sad. “What do _you_ do?”

“Light a candle for my mum, usually. She was a pious woman. I… don’t remember the date of my father’s passing, and I don’t think Dorian knows either. Suppose I’ll light a candle for him too, though I don’t think he’d appreciate it like she would. Not much for the Chantry.” He shakes away the specter of his parents and straightens away from the rail. “I have an idea. Be right back.” He squeezes Carver’s shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere, yeah?”

He means the ice-cold waters of the Amaranthine Ocean, and Carver knows it, because he smiles thinly and says, “Don’t worry. I haven’t thought about _that_ in a very long time.”

It’s not much comfort, but Felix takes it for the assurance it was meant to be and wanders below decks in search of Isabela. She’s alone in her cabin, to his mild surprise, draped in a slip of peacock-blue silk and bent over some correspondence on her massive weighted desk. Without her tricorner hat, her hair spilling loose and raven-black over her brown shoulders, she looks unusually soft and feminine, and he  hesitates just inside the doorway upon entering.

“Hey there handsome,” she says, welcoming him in with a curl of her wrist and a smokey half-smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I need to borrow a bottle of your nicest whisky.”

Isabela tsks. “Oh darling, I’m a pirate at heart. It’s rum or nothing. And if it’s Carver you’re asking for, it’ll be nothing anyway.”

“It is for Carver, but not in the way you’re thinking. I don’t want him—us—drunk. Just a toast, to people who watch us from beyond the Veil, if you believe that sort of thing.” He shuffles his bare feet like a schoolboy under her potent gaze. “I can reimburse you…”

“Nonsense. I won’t take a penny, Tevinter.” The words are sharp, but her voice is soft and honey-warm as she stands and unlocks the liquor cabinet. She unhooks a bottle of Rivaini sugarcane fire and two cut-crystal tumblers and passes them over. “Keep the bottle if you want, but I’d like the glasses back. Got those off a potbellied merchant slaver two years back after sinking him—only two of their kind.”

Felix accepts the offerings gingerly. “Truly, if I can repay you somehow…”

“Pish. You’re lucky you’re good-looking.” She drops him a wink. “Normally I’d ask for a kiss, but I don’t play with toys that belong to my friends. Not unless I’m invited.”

Felix flushes hot and stares at the floor. “I’m not, um…” He doesn’t know what excuse he intends to make, so he covers it by leaning forward and bussing a kiss against her smooth cheek. “Thank you.”

“Aw, you’re breaking my heart, sweet boy.” She ushers him to the door and pinches his bum on the way out. “Give Shoulders a kiss for me.”

His cheeks are still burning when he finds his way back to the prow. Carver is sitting, now, back to the rail and chin up, watching the sails blot out the stars like ghosts. He frowns a little when Felix joins him, armed with liquor, but Felix has a plan. He sets out the crystal and pours two fingers each, then caps the bottle and sets it aside. “For later.”

Carver accepts his own glass and brings it to his nose. “What’s for now?”

He takes a deep breath. “It’s a Tevinter thing. After a funeral, the family and friends of the deceased gather ‘round to drink and tell stories. When everything’s been talked out, you take whatever alcohol is left and pour it over the headstone, like a toast. No stones here, but I reckon the Amaranthine will serve.”

Carver blinks at him, eyes suddenly moist, and Felix wonders if he’s just done something incredibly stupid. Then he tips back the tumbler and takes a small sip, savoring the burn on his tongue. “I don’t remember much about our life before Lothering—we moved there when Bethy and I were six, and we didn’t leave again ‘til more than ten years later. But there’s this one thing that’s always stuck in my mind, like a painting: there’s an apple tree, in full bloom, and Bethy’s swinging from a branch and there are white petals in her hair. Marian’s higher up, shaking the branches so it looks like it’s snowing.” He stopped and shook his head, half-smiling. “I don’t even know how true it is anymore. It feels more like a dream than reality.”

“Does it matter?” Felix murmurs. “It was true once, in some form.”

“I guess so.” Carver holds his glass in both hands, knees drawn up to his chest, his shoulder firm against Felix’s arm. “What about you?”

“Well… there was this time when Dorian and I were kids, like nine or ten, and my parents were hosting a soiree at our townhouse in Minrathous. I was trying to behave myself, like a good child—yes I _was_ the good child, don’t laugh—and then Dorian came out of nowhere and dragged me into the gardens to say he’d stolen a bottle of wine and we should try it. We weren’t allowed alcohol, you see. But all the adults were drinking and they seemed fine, so we wanted to try.”

A chuckle rumbled in Carver’s chest. “I think I can see where this is going.”

“We hid in the bushes for half an hour, passing the bottle back and forth. Before we knew it we were indecently drunk, giggling loudly and shushing each other. Of course Mother found us—thankfully before either of our fathers got wind of it. We thought we’d get it for sure, but she just sent us to bed and told us she wouldn’t say anything.” Felix shakes his head. “She was always too soft with us. Of course, Father found out anyway. I woke the next morning with the most terrific headache, and Father was sitting there staring at me with that awful hangdog disapproval on his face. I think I started crying immediately.”

Carver snorts. “I thought this was supposed to be a _happy_ memory.”

“It is! Sort of.” Felix grins at the memory. “I thought he was going to skin me, but he said—and this is the part I remember the clearest— _the punishment you’ve already suffered far outweighs the crime committed_. At that point I would have taken forty lashes over suffering one more minute of that hangover, but suffer I did. And I never drank again, not until my sixteenth birthday.”

“Sounds like both your parents were soft on you.”

“A little, maybe. I didn’t always recognize it—all I saw was the constant pushing to do better in my studies, get better marks, strive for this apprenticeship or that specialization exam. Now…” He sighs into his glass and drains it all at once. “I wish I’d been able to thank them. All that badgering has saved my life any number of times in the past few months.”

“What would you have done?” Carver asks. “If they hadn’t pushed you to excel.”

“Be lazy, I suppose. Lazy in their eyes at least. I would’ve been content to study fusty old books and pursue ancient lines of inquiry in the safety of a Circle, publish my research, become a Senior Enchanter at thirty and disappear quietly into archaic obscurity.”

“Hmph. Sounds dull.”

Felix laughs. “Yes, I suppose. I should give Dorian more credit, too—he would never have let that happen.”

Carver sips at his drink, taking delicate swallows that make his throat bob endearingly. “What do you miss the most about them?”

“Mum wore this perfume,” Felix says. He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Lily-of-the-valley. Smelled absolutely wonderful. Sometimes I catch a whiff of it when I’m dreaming, and I like to think she’s nearby, watching over me as I wander the Fade.”

“That scares me,” Carver admits. “To think they’re watching. I think I must have disappointed my father a hundred times over and more by now.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

Carver shrugs. “Don’t see how. I was supposed to keep her safe, and I couldn’t. Not any of them.” A flash of anger lights in his eyes and he throws the last bit of liquor down his throat. “It should have been me.”

“The Maker,” Felix begins, and stops himself. He swallows back the Chantry rhetoric that rises to his lips and slides his hand against the nape of Carver’s neck instead, anchoring him. “And she would have said the same about you, I’m sure of it. If she was anything like you, I know that she faced down that ogre without a trace of regret, and was proud to stand between it and her family.”

Carver makes a choked sound and leans harder into Felix’s warmth. “She wasn’t. Anything like me. She was patient, and kind, and talented. She always knew what I meant to say even when I couldn’t say it. But. You’re right. She was brave, braver than I ever was. She didn’t hesitate. Her hands came up…” He lifts his own hands into the air, echoing her, his fingers blunt and square, palms plain, no magic leaping to his command. “She didn’t even have time to grab for her staff.” He drops his arms and sighs wetly. “Sorry. I’ve never told anyone about this before.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” The hand on Carver’s neck finds the silky black strands of his hair and weaves into them, stroking the base of his skull. Carver hums quietly, questioningly. “Thank you for telling me about her.”

“She would’ve liked you. I know it.” Carver snorts suddenly, and butts Felix gently under the chin. “That was one thing we had in common, at least. Good taste.”

Felix remembers the bottle of rum. “C’mon. We’re not done yet.” He scrambles to his feet and Carver follows, moving heavily as if he’s just woken from a deep sleep. He blinks at Felix with a little smile playing around his mouth.

“What’s next, then?”

Felix twists the cap off and flicks it into the sea before passing the bottle to Carver. “Do the honors?”

The rum is a pure, clear stream of silver in the moonlight as Carver pours it over the prow, scattering into glittering droplets that shine like stars against the black water before they disappear, swallowed into the enormity of the Amaranthine Ocean. When the bottle is empty, Carver bring it to his lips and whispers something into it. He covers the mouth with his thumb and turns it to Felix, who looks at him blankly.

“I’m making it up as I go, okay?” Carver mutters, embarrassed. “Just… put something into it. A memory, or a promise, or a secret. Something.”

Felix hides his smile in the bottle. The sharp rum-smell lingers in his nostrils as he passes a few small words into the glass neck, and then Carver hauls back and pitches it into the sea. “What did you say?”

“It doesn’t work like that, idiot.” Carver slides his hand around Felix’s neck and just holds him there, demanding nothing. “It’s not for our ears, but for theirs.”

“All right.” Felix lets himself lean into Carver’s touch, bringing one hand up to press against the small of Carver’s back. “Come to bed?”

“I’m not tired. I…” He looks almost embarrassed, but he doesn’t let go. “Watch the stars with me? Bethy and I used to count as many constellations as we could find the night of our birthday. A ploy to stay up late.”

“I don’t think Captain Isabela will be coming out to tell us off for staying up past our bed-time. But yes. Come on, the view’s better up here.” Reluctantly, he steps away and swings lightly up into the rigging. He climbs swiftly without boots, and soon he’s perched level with the mainsail, hands and feet threaded through the ropes to anchor him. He sways a little with Carver’s ascent, and then Carver is beside him, smiling and breathless.

“You’re getting  better at that.”

“It’s easier in the dark,” Felix admits. “The view isn’t as terrifying.”

“I’ll catch you if you fall.” The words should be syrupy-sweet, but Carver states them bluntly, with as much surety as the orders he gives in battle. His weight in the ropes settles, and Felix turns his eyes to the sky.

///

There’s a delegation to meet them when the _Silverbird_ kisses into the docks at Amaranthine. Zevran clearly wasn’t expecting it, and he isn’t happy about it, either—he stands at the rail with his arms folded, glowering across the water at the small contingent of honor guards that awaits their disembarkation. Felix sidles up next to him, following his gaze.

“Friends of yours?”

“Once upon a time,” the assassin replies cryptically. “I suppose there will be no avoiding him. Come, let us get this over with.”

Zevran walks away to join the queue at the gangplank, but Felix lingers, eyes picking over the soldiers that await them. There are twelve of them, standing six by two, dressed in spit-shine regimentals and draped in sashes of scarlet and velvet-brown, but they carry no other banner or sigil. At their head stands a lone man, a warrior if his height and breadth are any indication. He is fair of hair and face, a bit worn around the eyes and mouth, but still young, surely not too much older than Zevran himself. He’s dressed like a noble, but holds the sword on his hip like he knows what to do with it. Felix wonders who he is and what he wants with the _Silverbird_.

“Bloody sword of Maferath.” The quiet curse drags Felix’s eyes away to Carver, who stands at his shoulder. He’s frowning, but more from shock than dislike. “What in the Void is he doing here?”

“Who is he?”

“The King of Ferelden.”

They descend the gangplank one by one, Zevran first with his jaw tight, Carver and Felix after him, and Isabela bringing up the rear with her signature sway-hipped saunter. The King—looking incredibly unassuming for such an austere personage—steps forward to greet them, one hand to his chest in the Southern fashion. Zevran does not return the courtesy.

“Your Majesty,” he says, and his voice seems oddly cheerful for all the tension in his well-honed body. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Zevran. It’s good to see you again.” The King speaks cautiously, as if uncertain of his welcome. “Forgive the entourage—I know how you hate to make a scene.”

Zev brushes off his apology with a flick of his fingers. “Tch. It’s understandable. His Royal Highness can hardly be seen to fly his gilded cage without his retainers.” The King opens his mouth, perhaps to make some protest, but Zevran rolls right over him. “Tell me, Alistair, why are you here?”

The use of his first name seems to break something in the King, and he slumps, a little of his carefully-constructed façade crumbling away. “I had word that Grey Wardens were coming to Amaranthine from Weisshaupt. I’d hoped for word from… Tabris.”

“You can say her name,” Zevran says icily. “It won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not entirely sure I deserve to use it,” comes the weary reply. “I’m not here to fight with you, Zevran. I just wanted to hear the news for myself. And offer any hospitality I can to Wardens who are still loyal to our cause.” His eyes cut past Zevran’s shoulder and directly into Felix. “I assume these are they?”

“Ah yes, where are my manners.” There’s a mocking edge to Zev’s voice, but he turns aside and gestures them forward nonetheless. “Wardens Carver Hawke of Kirkwall, and Felix Alexius of Tevinter.”

The King’s fair brows climb toward his hairline. “I know the name Hawke. You are the Champion’s brother, are you not?”

Carver bends briefly at the waist. “It is so, Your Majesty.”

“Please, call me Alistair. I am still a Warden, after all, and we are therefore brothers-in-arms.” He greets Carver with a shared clasp of forearms and turns to Felix, eyes alighting on his staff. “A Tevinter, you say? Not many of those in the Warden ranks.”

“Special circumstances, Highness,” Felix says quietly. He can’t bring himself to refer to the King of bloody _Ferelden_ by his given name, but the man lets it go. “I owe Ser Carver my life, and so I have determined to follow him in pursuit of my duty.”

He can feel the weight of Carver’s gaze on him, colored with surprise—he’s never said as much to his face, even if he carries the sentiment quietly in his breast—but the King’s troubled expression clears, and he nods with understanding. “A worthy goal, Ser Felix. I welcome you to Ferelden and to Amaranthine. But come, enough of introductions—your journey has been long and arduous, I’m sure. I’ve taken rooms at an inn here in the city.” He looks askance at Zevran, very briefly. “Might I persuade you all to accept my hospitality for one evening before you journey on to Vigil’s Keep?”

“I dunno, handsome, am I included in this deal?” Isabela swaggers forward, eyes traveling from the King’s tooled leather boots to his neatly-coifed hair, glinting with silver at his temples. “Admiral Isabela, at your service, _Majesty_.”

The King doesn’t even bat an eyelash as he bows over her hand, brushing the slightest of kisses against the knuckles. “Naturally, milady Admiral. What a delight to be graced with your presence once again.”

“You remember me, Your Majesty? We met so terribly briefly, and so long ago.”

“Surely no length of time is too great to remember a face such as yours.”

Zevran snorts. “Your charm and wit have certainly improved in the years since we’ve seen one another. Very well, if you are determined and if my friends here are willing, we would welcome a night’s rest on someone else’s coin.”

The King does not take offense—instead he seems pleased, eyes crinkling in a way that shaves years off his weighted brow. “Excellent. I will leave you to take care of your things. The Crown and Royal will be ready to serve you when you arrive.”

He salutes them again and does a crisp military about-face, marching through the ranks of his honor guard. They peel away to follow him and the ring of their boots on the docks echoes in Felix’s ears long after they’re gone.

“Well.” Carver turns to Zevran, eyebrows raised. “That was… unexpected. For me.”

“And not entirely unexpected on my part,” Zevran admits. “Forgive the deception—I had hoped he wouldn’t come, but Alistair could never resist poking his nose where it wasn’t wanted.”

“I’m sensing a bit of bad blood between the two of you,” Felix says carefully.

“That is true, I’m afraid. We traveled together during the Fifth Blight, of course. There was some… unpleasantness toward the end, with my dear Warden at the center, and I have not completely forgiven him for it. But! That is water under the bridge, and it need not concern you. Making an ally of the King will be good for both of you.” He eyes Felix. “Perhaps you in particular, Tevinter. The Wardens at Vigil’s Keep will not be overeager to accept you into their ranks.”

“He goes where I go,” Carver growls. The unexpected support warms Felix, and he flashes Carver a brief but sincere smile.

“Adorable.” Isabela coos and pats Carver’s cheek, which he dodges with a scowl. “I don’t know about you boys, but I’m going to the Crown and Lion as soon as my crew have their marching orders.” She grins wickedly. “I failed to get that man out of his smalls once before, and now that he’s king I intend to have a rematch.”

///

The Crown and Rose is a prestigious establishment in the middle of the bustling port city, and though the common room is full of sailors and merchants and travelers seeking their fortune, a smaller dining room has been aside for their use. A few pageboys, discreetly attired in the colors of House Theirin, relieve them of their things, and they are being plied with food and drink when the King rejoins them.

“It’s only a cold lunch,” the King says apologetically, “but hopefully fresher than the fare you’ve had to put up with at sea.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” Felix says before Isabela can make a smart remark about the skills of her galley-cook. “But I admit I’m eager to taste fresh fruit again.” He’s eyeing a particular plate spread on the sideboard that’s laden with sliced apples and pears.

The King laughs and claps him on the back, and that sets the tone for the rest of the luncheon: informal and relaxed, stories traded across the table of the mostly lighthearted sort, and hardly any mention of the Architect or Zevran’s odd, glaring silence. Felix talks at length about the sea journey, and the King follows the story with great interest, laughing in all the right places and commiserating with Carver and Isabela on the issue of slavers.

“A pity they don’t require seafaring wardens,” muses the King. “I would be their first volunteer.”

Felix shakes his head. “As lovely as that sounds, the idea of seafaring _darkspawn_ holds little appeal.”

The King laughs, shedding years like onion skin, and perhaps the humor is dark, but it’s the kind that Wardens recognize Thedas over. Felix grins back. If this is what Ferelden’s _king_ is like, perhaps living and serving here won’t be so bad. And there’s Carver, of course. He looks across the table to where he sits, nursing his ale and smiling a little in the corners of his mouth. Fondness strikes hard at the pit of Felix’s stomach, and his breath comes short. He hopes the pattern of sharing quarters repeats itself, here and in Amaranthine.

Isabela occupies the King’s attention for a short while, and Felix looks to where Zevran is sitting quiet and stone-faced at his side. “What is it?” he asks softly, earning a grunt and a lifted eyebrow. “You clearly aren’t fond of His Majesty, but you traveled with him during the Fifth Blight.”

Zevran lifts one shoulder in half a shrug. “There was a… disagreement, toward the end of everything, and I have yet to forgive him for it.” He sighs. “Perhaps it is petty of me, after all these years. I have no doubt Tabris would extend the hand of forgiveness were she here in my place. But she is not, and I am afraid I hold a grudge far too easily when it comes to her.”

“Tabris was involved, then?”

The elf works his jaw as he stares across the table at King Alistair, who is blushing and laughing at something coy Isabela has said. “He broke my Warden’s heart. Turned her aside like so much roadside dust when she bared her soul and her self to him. The memory of it, even now…” He shakes his head abruptly, braids twisting, and pushes back from the table. As if he weren’t just speaking thusly, he bows with a semblance of respect in the King’s direction. “Excuse me. I find myself fatigued after our long journey, and I think I will retire.”

Felix doesn’t watch Zevran go—he watches Alistair, the downturn of his mouth and the tension around his eyes as the elf leaves the room quietly. Even Isabela, her voice low and piqued with charm, is not enough to restore his easy smile.

On Isabela’s other side, Carver lifts his eyebrows at him as if to say _what was that about?_ Felix tips his chin and rises to refill his goblet from the decanter resting on the sideboard, and Carver follows a moment later, his broad shoulders blocking out the room’s other occupants from overhearing. “Well?” he asks softly. His proximity and the tone of his voice send a ripple of delicious tension up Felix’s nape, and he covers the shudder of his spine by reaching for the wine decanter.

“Zev was telling me about the King. I guess they had a falling-out, something to do with Tabris.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t want to talk about it.” Carver turns, leaning his arse against the sideboard and folding his arms. There’s not much space on this side of the room, and his elbow brushes Felix’s upper arm as the wine pours in a steady stream into the bowl of his goblet. “I guess I wouldn’t either, if it were me. Bit awkward that the King is here, though. I wonder why he really came.”

“If he was hoping for reconciliation, I think he’s barking up the wrong tree.” Felix sips from the cup and tries very hard not to look at Carver. He can still see his face from the corner of his eye, every dear, clean-shaven plane of it. Abruptly, he craves the feel of Carver’s skin under his palms, the sound of his hitched breath in his ear. This close, he can smell him, still a little sour from a few days without a proper bath—in short supply aboard the _Silverbird_ , in spite of all the water—but laced with clean leather and the citrus liniment he now works into his scarred, calloused hands each morning without fail. He must know it drives Felix mad, the very scent of lemon and thyme ensnaring his senses and stoking the coals in his groin to a low, insistent simmer.

Carver is looking at him expectantly, and Felix clears his throat. Oops. “Er, sorry. Drifted off for a second there.”

“That boring, am I?” Carver asks, almost stoic enough that Felix fears he’s truly offended him. But his eyes are smiling, even if his mouth is not, and Felix elbows him gently in the side.

“You know you’re not. I’m just tired.” He looks down at his cup, which he’s somehow drained halfway in all the time that Carver’s been speaking. “Perhaps the wine has something to do with it.”

Carver’s hand squeezes at his elbow, gentle and warm, and it takes a great deal of effort not to lean into him. “Take it easy, Fee, it’s barely midafternoon.”

“Hmph. Don’t mother me.” He pats Carver’s broad chest, unthinking, and finds it firm and warm beneath the thin fabric of his plain wool tunic. He snatches his hand away quickly. “Now go on, I want to hear the stories His Majesty has to tell about the Blight.” He turns and walks steadily (he hopes) to his place at the table, sliding effortlessly into the conversation with the lubrication of wine and good humor. Still, he can feel the heat of Carver’s eyes on him all the way to the table, and he vows that tonight he will finally break the tense silence that hovers over them like a cloud.

///

Carver kicks off his boots and flops back on the narrow bed fully-dressed, a groan of relief yanked out of him from the very depths of his belly. The mattress is nothing special, but it feels like a cloud under his back, the roughspun sheets like silk. He curls his fingers under the counterpane and breathes deep—sour beer, wet dog, fresh-scrubbed pine boards fill his nose, banish the last remains of sea stink and docks.

He’s just starting to doze off when the door bangs open and Felix trundles in, hauling a good-sized copper tub behind him along with all his gear. He laughs at Carver’s lethargy and begins divesting himself of his equipment. Loudly.

“Maker’s mercy, Carv, it’s not even dinner time.”

“Fuck off.”

Felix just laughs again. He piles his armor on a chair for cleaning later, and leans his staff against the wall with exaggerated care. Carver watches through slitted eyes as Felix skins out of shirt and trou and bends over to fill the tub in nothing but his string-thin smalls.

 _Maker and Bride_.

“You can go next if you like,” Felix says, oblivious to Carver’s gaze. Or maybe not. “You reek of the ocean, and not in the good way.”

“Isabela would say there’s no _bad_ way.”

Felix glances over his shoulder, cheekily, and oh, he’s definitely not oblivious. “Her room’s down the hall, if you want to make good on that.”

Carver huffs in response, dismissing the suggestion out of hand. He’s at least man enough to admit he’s not man enough for Isabela. And he doesn’t want to intrude, if his evaluation of Zev turns out to be correct.

Felix ignores him again, or at least makes a good show of ignoring him. His brown back bows like the _Silverbird_ ’s mizzen in a gale, striped with pale pink scars, and his muscles flex beneath the skin as he swirls the water with his arm to warm it. Steam rises of a sudden, beading on his shoulders. The strip of his smalls peeks out from between his arse cheeks as he bends and sways with the movement, and Carver catches his tongue between his teeth, a little sting that does nothing to alleviate the pressure in his trousers.

“You want one?” Felix asks suddenly. He strips off his loincloth and toes it onto the pile of dirty clothes. Carver jerks his eyes away.

“Hn?”

“A bath, when I’m done.” Felix twists to look at him, arse still framed against the copper tub, but now Carver can see the flex of his shoulders and the edge of one peaked nipple, taut and rosy in the steam. “I can make it quick, if you do.”

“I, uh, I’m good. Take your time.”

Felix smiles slow. “As you like.”

He climbs into the tub, a little clumsily, and Carver sees a flash of darker skin, heavy and pendulous and dusted with hair, before he snaps his eyes shut. In a determined grasp for propriety, he rolls over and tucks his knees up, trying to focus on sleep. He could, if he tried—Felix hums quietly to himself, splashing a little now and then, but he isn’t being deliberately noisy. Carver closes his eyes, but his ears refuse the same. He can hear the slide of skin against the tub, the little sighs Felix makes as he rubs away days of salt and grit. A swirl and splash when Felix ducks under to rinse his hair. Silence for a little while, then a considering noise in his throat. A hum. Water laps gently against the side of the tub, and Felix sighs softly, a little exhale that burns in Carver’s blood.

He’s even more tightly wound than before when Felix finally rises in a rush of water. “It’s yours if you want it,” he says, over the scrape of a towel pulled roughly against his skin. Carver turns over after an acceptable amount of time has passed, keeping his knees up, and there stands Felix, naked as the day he was born, rubbing briskly at his face and head with a towel.

And he’s hard. Blatantly. A droplet of water pearls down the flat plane of his stomach and Carver follows it with his eyes, past his navel into the thin, wiry hair on his belly, and then disappearing in the crease of Felix’s thigh where his cock hangs heavy, drooping under its own weight. It’s more than he’d been able to see in the gloom of their cabin five nights ago—significantly darker than the rest of him, modest in length but with a fat, plump head that his tongue waters at the sight of, peeking demurely from the loose folds of his generous foreskin. Tevinters must not circumcise their boys, Carver thinks, and he belatedly remembers the loose slide and slip of him between his lips. He groans and presses his fingertips into his eyes before he can be caught staring. Maker take the man.

“All right? The water’s clean, if you were worried.”

“How?” Carver mumbles.

“Magic, of course. It’s occasionally useful for things _other_ than blasting darkspawn to little smithereens.”

Felix is watching him when Carver lowers his hands, towel slung over his shoulder and arms dangling by his sides. His eyebrows are lifted in innocent query, but there’s a smirk around his mouth that strikes certainty into Carver’s body. He props himself up, knees hanging sideways off the bed and slung wide, his shoulders propped against the wall. He lets his right hand fall against his thigh to frame the bulge of his erection, watches Felix follow the movement with dark eyes.

“Why don’t you come here a minute,” he says roughly.

Felix comes to him so quickly it’s almost comical. The towel slithers to the ground in a wet heap as he crawls onto the bed and into Carver’s lap. Carver tips his head back and his hands find Felix’s waist, smooth and toned and still damp from his bath. Felix wriggles a little in his grip, teeth gleaming white against his lower lip, and his plump cock sways heavily between his legs.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” Felix admits, his voice a velvet murmur in Carver’s ear. “I hope I’m not the only one.” Shaded by the heavy fall of his lashes, his eyes slide bashfully to one side, and Carver thumbs his chin to regain his attention.

“Hey. You know you’re not. I can barely take my eyes off you, most of the time.”

Those dark eyes sparkle with life, and Felix suddenly seems so young, even though Carver knows they’re of an age. There’s still a thread of innocence in him that Carver lost a while ago, a little sprig of joy that Carver is reluctant to see plucked. He draws Felix in for a kiss to keep from thinking about it. He’s pliant and wet, opens readily, tastes of crisp apples and a little of the salty hardtack he’d munched before making port. It’s a little piece of the sea tucked away in the crevices of Felix’s body, and Carver suddenly longs to seek more of it.

“Um.” He’s too easily distracted. Felix is nibbling on his ear, hips moving soft in an easy rhythm that teases at the front of Carver’s trousers. He’s a little heady with sleeplessness and his thoughts trickle away from him, lost to the grind and sigh of Felix in his arms.

Felix flicks his tongue against Carver’s neck. “Want you.”

 _Oh_. He’s forgotten how quick it takes hold, the burn. Aching for the touch of another person, for release, a squirmy knot in the base of his belly fed by the taint swimming in his blood. Felix is new to this, still, and it shows: his cock leaks freely and his balls are already drawn up tight, his skin flush with arousal and his touch manic, almost too brief, hands alighting on Carver’s chest and belly and throat without settling anywhere.

His cock, when Carver grips it, is warm and familiar, softer than damp silk. He strokes it slowly and Felix moans, rocking his hips forward in encouragement. “You like that?” Carver says, even though the evidence is spread over his lap, wanton and wriggling. He needs to say it. Felix groans his approval and Carver sinks his teeth delicately into the lobe of his ear. “You like it when I touch you?”

“Y-yeah. Fuck, Carver, feels so good.”

Felix’s breath is damp on Carver’s forehead. Carver grips his arse with his free hand and urges him on until Felix is rolling his hips in earnest, every thrust brushing his balls against the front of Carver’s trousers. He grunts with exertion and whimpers readily with every pass of Carver’s hand. He’s so _unashamed_. Carver wants to eat him whole.

“Can you,” Felix whispers. “Carver, please.”

“Tell me.”

His fingers tangle with Carver’s, slowing the rhythm of his hand on Felix’s cock. There’s a slight tingle, Felix frowning in concentration, and then Carver’s grip is slick with grease conjured from thin air. “Fuck me.”

Carver’s rhythm slows. “I haven’t bathed.”

“It’s okay. I like it.” Felix inhales sloppily at the crook of his throat. “You smell like the sea.”

“I smell like dock slop,” Carver corrects, “as you were so quick to point out earlier.”

“I changed my mind.” Felix licks a long, hot stripe up the side of his neck, and it’s gross, but Carver groans anyway. “Wash after, if you’re so worried.”

“What about _you_?” His hand slides down and squeezes one pert arse cheek. “All clean and nice.”

“I’ll just wash again.” Felix rocks his hips, pouting. “Please, Carv. Say yes.”

As if he could deny him, looking like that. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that. In a minute.” He grins, a little self-consciously, and nibbles at Felix’s ear. “I like playing with your cock.”

Felix shivers in his arms and insinuates his fingers down the front of Carver’s trousers. “Only if I get to play with yours. I didn’t have a chance, last time.”

The angle is awkward, but he’s able to get his fingers around Carver’s girth and squeeze. Carver groans as Felix thumbs the head, spreading the slick, and explores the length of him in the tight space. He’s frowning a bit, though, and Carver hums a query.

“Something wrong?”

“Where’s your snood?” At Carver’s startled look, Felix laughs self-consciously. “Sorry, I don’t know the word for it in the Trade tongue. The two words are the same, in Arcanum.”

“Foreskin,” he supplies, tightening his hold around Felix’s cock. “I was circumcised when I was a boy. Chantry practice, something about… ahhh… cleanliness and shit.” He takes the flesh in question between thumb and forefinger, sliding it up over the head and back down. It has a lovely give to it, and it makes Felix’s mouth drop open in a silent groan, so he does it again. “Does that feel nice?”

“You fucking know it does,” Felix bites out. “Fuck, Carv, you’re a _menace_.”

“You love it.” Carver is mesmerized by the pull and retract of the warm skin. He wonders if it’s loose enough to get beneath. He teases the rim with his thumb, stroking circles around the corona, and Felix whines brokenly into his hair.

“Wait a moment,” he rasps. He fumbles at the laces of Carver’s trousers and pulls him free. Carver can’t help the groan of relief that escapes him as Felix strokes him a few times, brisk and short like he likes, if a bit dry. Then he scoots forward a little bit in Carver’s lap so that their cocks brush together, head to head, and Carver tips his chin to his chest to watch. His spine coils with sweet tension as Felix pulls his foreskin back and rubs the fat head of Carver’s prick against his own. Then, slowly, he eases it back, and it swallows them both, their glans hugged tight together, and Maker _fuck_ it’s like their cocks are fucking each other. Carver squeezes his eyes shut tight, fingers like claws on Felix’s slim hips.

“Can you,” Felix whispers, and the oil slicks Carver’s hand again, warm and smelling faintly of clean, wet moss. Carver reaches behind him readily and slides his fingers down in the cleft between his buttocks. The skin is hot and smooth except where the tight pucker of his nether entrance furls, and Carver rubs it slowly, teasing the muscle as Felix works their cocks together. “Nngh. Yeah. Like that.”

Carver’s fingers feel blunt and clumsy, but Felix only sighs happily as he presses one digit slowly into his body. “You don’t do this often, do you?”

“Mmngh. What, sleep with men?”

“Yeah.” Felix’s body is tight around him, hot as a furnace. He works his wrist slowly, letting his thumb massage the firm muscle of his buttock. “Or, I dunno, be on the… receiving end.”

“No, I guess not. Or anyone, honestly, in a long time. Not since I got sick.” He doesn’t seem put off by the topic of conversation—he rocks his hips slowly until Carver’s knuckles are wedged up against his perineum, groans, squeezes his hand over their joined erections. “Is that a problem?”

“Maker, no.” Carver twists his finger as he pulls out and Felix whines, high and needy. “You want another?”

“Please.”

“So polite.” It’s a bit of a tight fit, but Felix doesn’t flinch away, just pushes down until his body swallows Carver’s fingers whole. “All right?”

“Mmf. Yes. Oh, Carv, you feel so good inside me.”

“You’re about to feel even better.” Carver snickers at the terrible line, and Felix smothers it with a clumsy kiss.

“You’re awful.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Mmmmm… yeah, yeah, _Maker_ fuck me with your fingers.” Felix gasps and grinds down, and Carver’s cock slips free from the wet cling of his foreskin, but it doesn’t matter because he’s driving his fingers into Felix and Felix is taking it like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. His face is a marvel, Carver thinks—wrenched tight with need, lips pulled back from his teeth, throat bobbing with every frantic breath. He slows his strokes, massaging the inner walls firmly on every pass, and Felix’s mouth drops open. “Yesss…”

“You ready for a third, Fee?”

Felix nods, lashes fluttering. Carver aches to go faster, but he stills himself, breathes, focuses on the tight control he has over his mind and his body. He counts the breaths puffing wetly against his forehead and works his hand smoothly until Felix bites frantically at his ear and begs for more.

“How do you want it?” Carver whispers, sliding his fingers out of him with a slick sound. Felix sits back, sinks down slowly onto Carver’s cock, the velvet cling of him dragging implacably at Carver’s gut.

“Hard,” he snarls when he’s got his breath back. “Fuck the taint out of me.”

Carver does his damnedest to oblige. He pushes Felix flat to the mattress and hauls him into his lap, knees bent back to his chest and sprawled wide. When they’re panting and sweating and starting to cramp, Carver turns him roughly and manhandles him onto hands and knees. Bent over his scarred back, he can sink his teeth into the salty nape of Felix’s neck, and Felix can muffle his helpless cries of ecstasy in the pillows. It’s good, but still not quite right.

“Up,” Carver growls, and slaps his arse hard when Felix moves too slowly for his liking. Felix whines and pushes himself up on shaking elbows. “Turn over, darling, let me take you this way.”

Felix rolls, letting himself be turned onto his stomach with his legs off the bed and feet braced shakily on the polished floor.  Carver’s cock smacks wetly against his thigh as he steps between the V of his trembling legs, and he slides two fingers into Felix, testing the stretch and slickness. Felix rocks back eagerly, moaning like a whore, and Carver can’t take it anymore. He pushes in, the velvet heat taking his length so perfectly he nearly comes on the spot, and when he’s got his balance, he snaps his hips hard enough to slam Felix forward into the mattress.

Felix positively _howls._ Carver can’t bring himself to care. These cracked old walls have likely heard worse over the years. He’ll hear about it from Bela and Zev later, but he doesn’t care about that, either. All he cares about is Felix, tight and pliant and _perfect_ , taking every punishing thrust with wild delight, sweating and writhing and screaming himself hoarse as Carver ploughs him like a field.

Then he wonders, abruptly, if King Alistair can hear them, and he smothers his giggles into a scar that stripes across Felix’s shoulder blade. Felix huffs and moans, pushing back languidly as Carver’s strokes slow a bit. “Whassofunny?”

“Just thinking about the King,” Carver gasps, “listening to us… going at it like nugs.” He rolls his hips deep, taking a moment to catch his breath between frenzies. Felix snickers into the pillow and hums, reaching back to slide his fingers clumsily against Carver’s flank.

“Carv… wanna see you. Wanna see your face when I come…”

Carver leans down, kisses his neck softly as he adds a little sharp hook to the end of each thrust. Felix sobs, and the moment of tranquility is gone as if it never was. “You close?”

“Nng. Yes.” Felix shudders when Carver pulls out of him slowly, massaging his arse to soothe the empty sensation he leaves behind. When Carver tips him over onto his back, he goes easily, and when Carver nestles back into him he grins up from the crumpled bedding, beaming brighter than a sunrise.

He takes up the pace again, smooth and steady, and Felix clutches at his arms as he moans a steady stream of garbled nonsense. It’s the closest thing to lovemaking that Carver has ever experienced, and it’s terrifying—more terrifying than charging into a screaming den of darkspawn in the darkest corner of the Deep Roads. But because he’s a Hawke, and a Warden, and because he knows that life is so painfully short, he grabs onto the fear with both hands and squeezes until it’s not fear anymore, but wild, frantic joy, driving him on to the explosive finish that hovers just on the horizon.

Felix must feel it, somehow, because he arches up and cries out, eyes locked onto Carver’s like his life depends on it. Carver can feel his orgasm beginning: taut, rhythmic contractions flutter around his cock, and Felix’s noises become tighter and closer together, little “ah-ah-ah” sounds that spur him on. He holds himself just barely in check, snapping his hips with punishing regularity, and then Felix opens his mouth wide and screams aloud, clawing at the sheets and at Carver’s shoulders as his cock spits out ropes of thick white spend. Every thrust coaxes another cry, another spurt, each weaker than the last until Felix collapses completely, panting hoarsely, his stomach and chest splattered liberally with his own seed. A few aftershocks shudder through him, rippling his abdomen—Carver can feel them deep inside as he rocks carefully, cock nudging sweetly against Felix’s insides.

“Unghh,” Felix groans, head flopping back as if his spine has been turned to jelly. “Carv…”

“Okay?” Carver asks shakily, because his blood is pounding in his ears and he thinks he might be on the verge of losing it entirely. “D’you want me to pull out?”

“Mnnh. No. No, I want you inside… come inside me, Carv, please.”

He tightens his internal muscles as if to urge him on, and Carver is lost. He jerks forward, hips working frantically, and sucks in a great gust of air as he steps to the edge of orgasm and tips over into sweet oblivion.

Carver stirs eventually, though it takes effort—Felix is completely boneless beneath his weight, and their skin sticks together as he pulls up, trying to gather himself. He staggers to the washbasin for a cloth and a small bottle of elfroot balm, which he settles safely in the wrecked folds of the bedding before climbing up beside Felix. He breathes deeply, willing his heart to calm, and reaches between Felix’s legs with the damp cloth.

Felix makes a small noise in his throat and Carver stills. “All right?”

Felix takes a shuddering breath and lets it out, a little embarrassed laugh. “After all that, and this feels like the most intimate thing we’ve ever done.” He smiles faintly through the blush that reddens his cheeks. “It feels good.”

And that, oddly, is what prompts a blush in Carver’s own face. Felix’s smile widens, not mocking but _affectionate_ and Carver busies himself with his task, tucking Felix’s knee up and wiping carefully at his nether entrance. Then he smooths elfroot balm into the abused skin, and Felix sighs and squirms a little, enjoying the oversensitivity. Carver kisses his knee before releasing him, and he pitches the rag into the corner to take care of later.

“C’mere,” Felix murmurs when Carver hesitates. Carver succumbs, burrows close and tucks his nose contentedly into the hollow of Felix’s throat, where it smells faintly of soap and strong, clean sweat. Felix kisses his forehead. “Thank you.”

“Mmf. F’r what?”

“Being so good to me.” Felix strokes his fingertips up and down Carver’s back like he’s painting him with a brush. His skin tingles in their wake. “Taking care of me.”

“I like doing it. It’s…” He spreads his palm warmly over the smoothness of Felix’s belly. “It’s for you, but it’s for me, too. Makes me feel good. Needed.”

“Selfish.” His voice is teasing, though, and Carver takes no offense. “I… is it too much to ask, if…”

“Dunno if you don’t ask.” Carver props himself up a little bit, his chin balanced on Felix’s sternum.

“I don’t know if you’re going to like it.”

“It’s okay.” Carver cranes up to kiss his stubbled chin. “Ask, Fee. Anything.” He clears his throat. “Wardens speak now, for later they may have no voice.”

“That’s a cheerful little saying.”

“We have a lot of them.” He lifts his eyebrows, expectant. “Well?”

“I want to keep you. For myself.” The bob of his throat seems over-exaggerated at this negligible distance. “I owe you not only my life twice over, but my good health and likely my sanity. You… mean a great deal to me, and I find that makes me selfish.”

“You’re saying you want to be exclusive.”

Felix isn’t looking at him. “I… yes. I know that Wardens are often, er, promiscuous in light of their particular… lifestyle…”

“Fee.” Carver is trying not to laugh. He scoots up the bed and puts his arms around him, brushing his fingers through the coarse stubble at his temples. Felix nudges into the touch like a cat—Carver almost expects him to purr. “Shut up. The answer is yes.”

“Yes, you want to be exclusive?”

“Yeah. And yeah, I care about you, too. A lot.” He brushes his lips over Felix’s blue-kissed eyelids, tongues the bridge of his nose teasingly. Felix mumbles and makes a halfhearted effort to push him away. “I learned a long time ago that life is short, and if you don’t take it by the horns, it’s just a waste of the little time the Maker grants us. So yeah, I want to be with you. Only you.” He nibbles at Felix’s earlobe. “I want to fight at your side.” A kiss to the side of his jaw. “Warm your bed at night.” A finger taps lightly at the cleft in his chin, which Felix dips his head to kiss. “Fuck you blind when you need it. If that’s okay.”

Felix stares at him, eyes wide and a bit moist. Carver takes hold of his chin and steers him down for a kiss. He’s still soft-mouthed from orgasm, and he opens readily, perhaps a little desperately, under Carver’s coaxing. When he’s kissed the breath from both their lungs, Carver draws away and meets his gaze.

“ _Is_ it okay?”

Felix nods, blinking rapidly. “Fasta vass, Carver, _yes_.”

“Good.” Carver kisses him, just the slightest brush of lips, and lets the tension in his body unwind as he lays beside his lover. _Mine_. _Felix is all mine._ “Good.”

* * *

.postscript.

Carver strides into the room he shares with Felix like an eager puppy, long-limbed and smiling. He’s been away from Vigil’s Keep for nearly two weeks, on a special envoy to treat with the King on behalf of the Warden-Commander, and every fiber of his being felt the absence of his lover keenly. Felix is here, as he hoped—bent over the desk with his shirt untucked and his elbow sprawled out as he sucks on the tip of his quill thoughtfully. He looks up as Carver enters and his face transforms, spreading into a dazzling smile.

“Carv!”

“Hey, Fee. Miss me?”

“Not even a little.” He tips his chin up, pleading, and Carver takes his sweet face in between his palms, bending low to kiss him warmly. Felix slides his tongue into his mouth almost immediately and tangles his fingers in Carver’s tunic to pull him close.

Carver breaks away reluctantly only when his neck begins to complain. “Well I missed _you_ , Serrah Smartarse. What are you snickering at?”

“‘Serrah.’ You’re such a Marcher brat.”

“Bite your tongue, Tevinter.”

“Bite it for me.”

“Mmm. If you insist.” Carver nibbles at his lower lip, coaxing his mouth open, and scrapes his teeth over Felix’s velvet tongue, strokes the hard ridges of his palate with his own. Maker, he’s missed this.

Felix moans and pulls back. “Carv, wait. Your sister—”

“Really? You want to talk about Marian right now?”

“No, I meant to tell you, she’s here. In Vigil’s Keep.”

Carver pulls back from where he’s nuzzling Felix’s neck. “She’s what?”

“Here. With Varric and Fenris. They stopped by to see you on their way through to Kirkwall.”

“Ah. Well.” He fingers the soft linen of Felix’s shirt collar regretfully. “Suppose this’ll have to be postponed then.” At Felix’s apologetic smile, he brushes a kiss to his forehead and leans back. “What are you working on?”

“I’m writing Dorian.”

“You’ve heard from him then? Have they reached Minrathous?”

“Yes. He’s been doing quite well since we saw him in Honnleath—he’s been named Lord Ambassador, and he and Cullen have settled in Minrathous for the time being.”

Carver barks a laugh. “Old Knight-Captain Rutherford, eh? Rubbing shoulders with blood mages and magisters. I can hardly credit it.”

“That man wasn’t made for a noble life,” Felix agrees, examining his own letter regretfully. “And Dorian is hardly the golden political boy any longer. I wonder how long it will take them to go mad from boredom.”

Carver throws himself on the bed, groaning in relief as the aches of travel begin to soften. “Give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they’ll adopt a hundred children and settle down into placid domesticity without a hitch.”

“Time will tell. This will give him something to laugh over, anyway.”

“What will?”

“My letter. I’m telling him about you.”

Carver opens his mouth to make some sort of snarky reply, but the door bounces open before he can speak and Marian pokes her head in. “Baby brother!”

Carver rolls over and buries his face in the mattress. “He’s currently unavailable, but you can leave a message with his secretary.”

“Oh, is that all I am to you?” Felix says, amused. “Then you can sleep on the floor tonight, _serrah_.”

Smiling a little, Carver pushes himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Marian is standing in the middle of the room, hips canted and lips curled in a knowing smirk. She looks tired, but happier than the last time he’d laid eyes on her, fresh out of the Fade and reeling from Stroud’s sacrifice. Someone has cut her hair into a neat fringe, and the kaddis on her nose is bright and blood-red, making the blue of her eyes flare like stars. “Hi sis,” he says, and she beams.

“Sorry to interrupt the reunion, but we’re not staying long and I wanted to see you. Get a drink with me?”

“Yeah all right.” Feeling loose-limbed and content, Carver ruffles Felix’s head as he passes. Felix ducks away, grumbling, and turns back to his letter-writing.

“ _That’s_ new,” Marian says as they wander down to the mess hall. The beer on tap is decent—better than the Hanged Man’s, anyway—and Carver slaps down a few coppers for two mugs as he contemplates his reply.

“Not really,” he says at last, and takes a long draw. Marian makes a face and wipes the foam from his lip with her sleeve, which he allows.

“No? I guess it has been awhile. Not really fair, is it, the only family I have left faffing off all over Thedas while I have to be a grown-up and try to get Kirkwall under control.”

“Kirkwall doesn’t have to be your responsibility,” Carver tells her, even though he knows nothing he says will change her mind.

“Yes, it does.” She sighs. “It’s still home to me, after all this time. Suppose I’d better do my bit at cleaning it up.” She knocks her tankard against his. “You’re different. Calmer.” She’s looking at him with calculation in her cornflower eyes. Not calculation—intrigue. Maybe a little bit of sorrow. Carver drains his ale and answers as honestly as he knows how.

“A death sentence isn’t so bad with another soul to warm the block beside you.”

She nods, satisfied, and summons the bartender. “Two fingers of your best whiskey, please.” To Carver, “Take a shot with me, brother? To celebrate new beginnings.”

Carver toasts her with the snifter the barkeep places in front of him. “All right. Maybe just the one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more sex, less plot *throws confetti*

**Author's Note:**

> This story has 100% more smut than the first one, and the second chapter has 200% more smut than this one, so make of that what you will. Also, the brief Seb/Isabela is a nod to The Other Hawke, and probably won't resurface again unless I feel like playing with the chaste yet tempestuous nature of their relationship. Hope you enjoy! :)


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